How It Ends Page 7

  That’s when I see the highlights in her hair. Seriously. Jessie. With highlights. This is the girl who started the year without even brushing her hair some mornings. And the closer I look at her, the more I see. She’s wearing all new clothes from head to foot.

  “Are those new jeans?”

  “This is what happens when my mom notices I’m feeling down,” she says, striking a pose. “I was having a rough couple of days, so she took me shopping and gave me a little makeover to cheer me up.” She looks down at herself. “Do I look okay?”

  A mixture of sadness and jealousy churns in my stomach. “So that’s why you couldn’t do anything yesterday? Why you didn’t answer your phone when I called?” There’s a tiny little part of my brain telling me to shut the hell up, but Jessie doesn’t even notice how hysterical I’m getting.

  “Yeah. I didn’t mention it before, because I had no idea it was going to happen. Out of the blue, Mom just told me to get in the car for a surprise.” Jessie starts walking, not even noticing that I’m not following. I watch her go, trying to push away the rush of feelings turning my insides to fire. Then I turn and walk away.

  I blink back tears as I push open the front doors of the school, half expecting a teacher to jump out and force me back to class. But no one notices me leave, which makes me feel even worse. I shiver and bundle my hands inside the arms of my thin sweater, thinking of my nice warm jacket back in my locker. I can’t go back, though. I don’t want to go back.

  By the time I get to my front porch, I’m sobbing hysterically and shivering violently. I just want to get inside and curl up on my bed and forget this day ever existed. I reach for my pocket to get my key, and my stomach clenches so hard I think I might throw up. My fucking key is in my jacket pocket. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I throw my bag against the side of the house and slump down on the icy steps.

  I’m going to have to go back to school. What else can I do? I’ll freeze here on these steps, and no one will be home for hours. I bury my face in my hands, sick at the thought of trekking back to school in the freezing cold.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I hear a car pull up to the curb. God, I hate the suburbs. In the city, you can have an emotional breakdown right on the street and people will step right over you, minding their own business. Here in the boonies, though, people love to get involved. I say a little prayer that whoever it is will just keep on moving, but the sound of a car door opening shatters that hope. Goddamn it. I’m about to say that I’m just waiting for someone when I hear Mrs. Avery’s voice.

  “Annie? Sweetheart, where is your coat? And why are you home from school?” Before I can string together enough thoughts to form a response, she’s out of her car and racing toward me, concern etched on her face. “Are you sick?”

  All the years of pretending to be okay evaporate in the face of her kindness.

  “Are you locked out, hon? You can come home with me . . .”

  I nod my head and pick up my bag, my whole body numb from the cold.

  Mrs. Avery settles me in the car and then pauses before shutting the door. I look up at her, and she does the most unbelievable thing. She takes off her coat and wraps it around me before sprinting over to her door and jumping into the car.

  “How you managed to get here all the way from school without freezing to death is beyond me.” Her shivering fingers crank the heat up to high, and I move to give her back her coat. “Don’t even think about it,” she commands, swinging the car around to head back to her house.

  Tears prickle in my eyes. Mrs. Avery has known me for only a few months and she’s kinder to me than my own family.

  She pulls up to a stop sign and sneaks a look at me, taking in my tearstained cheeks. “I have an idea,” she says. “What would you say to the two of us playing hooky from everything and heading to the coffee shop for a warm drink and some treats? I think you need some girl time.”

  My throat constricts, and I’m suddenly weak with want. Most of the time I feel tough and independent, but today I need a mother to take care of me.

  At the coffee shop, Mrs. Avery makes a big deal out of introducing me to the lady behind the counter, telling her that it’s a special occasion. I order a hot chocolate and a brownie, and they put extra whipped cream in my drink.

  We find a tiny little table tucked away at the back and sit down. As soon as it’s just the two of us, though, I’m all awkward and nervous. I’m not sure what to say.

  “Thank you for all this, Mrs. Avery,” I start. “My stepsister will be home later and I can be out of your hair.”

  “No trouble at all. Something very upsetting must have happened to make you run out of school without a coat.”

  “Just a bad day, I guess.”

  “It must have been . . . you left less than an hour into the school day.”

  A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I never even made it to first period.”

  “That is a bad day. Want to talk about it?”

  What can I say? That I’m jealous of her relationship with her daughter? That seeing Jessie happy makes me sad? What kind of friend would think that way? “I miss my mom.”

  Mrs. Avery’s face softens, and she takes my hands in hers. Something inside me cracks, and words start tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “She died six years ago on Halloween. I miss her so much, and I feel like I’m the only one who even remembers her. My dad got remarried to this horrible woman with a perfect daughter, and it’s like they want to start over with a brand-new family and I’m an ugly reminder of the past.”

  Mrs. Avery is quiet for a few minutes, and I start to feel like a total idiot. This woman is so kind to me. She doesn’t need me dumping all my problems on her.

  “That sounds like a lonely way to live. Have you talked to your father about how you feel?”

  I snort. “He knows I don’t like Madge . . . that’s my stepmother . . . but he doesn’t get why. Every time I complain about her, he just figures I’m being difficult and that I won’t give her a chance because she’s not my mom. He’s not really around enough to see how bad it is.”

  “Does he travel?”

  “A bit. But mostly he just works long hours. I feel like he doesn’t want to be home anymore.”

  “Sometimes when people are sad, they immerse themselves in other things. Maybe your dad works so much because he’s trying to distract himself from missing your mom.”

  “I doubt it. I feel like he forgets all about her. He never talks about her. And he got married so fast . . .”

  “How long have he and . . . Madge . . . been married?”

  “Her name is Madeleine, but I call her Madge because she hates it.” That makes Mrs. Avery laugh. “They met about four years after Mom died. Six months later, they got married in our backyard, and she and her daughter moved in. So it’s been about a year and a half now.”

  “That’s all still pretty new. It takes a while to adjust to these things.”

  “I don’t want to adjust. I want my mom back. Or at least to feel like we’re still remembering her.”

  Mrs. Avery nods. “What do you remember about your mother?”

  The question is a bright, shiny gift. “She was beautiful and smart and kind. She was an artist and always had paintbrushes sticking out of her pockets and shoved in her hair.” Tears overflow and run down my cheeks, but I don’t want to stop talking. “She made me feel like I was the best thing that ever happened to her. She used to come up with all these little adventures we’d go on. Like, this one time she bought a map of the city and designed a scavenger hunt for us. We rode the subway all afternoon, checking items off her list, like getting a picture of a pigeon, picking up five pieces of litter, and finding a street performer who played the harmonica.”

  “She sounds very special.”

  “She was. Now I feel like someone has pressed the Pause button on my life. No one in my family even notices me anymore, let alone makes me feel important. I feel like the best part
of my life died with my mom.”

  Mrs. Avery crosses her arms on the table in front of her. Our drinks have gone cold. “Why don’t I talk to your dad?” She holds up a finger when I start to protest. “Not to tell him what you’ve told me. That’s just between us. But to see if he’d be okay with you spending some extra time with us. I’d be happy to do some of the things that you’re missing a mother for—like shopping and talking about school and boys. And if you’d like to trust me with those things, you’re welcome to join Jess and me. What do you think?”

  I’m worried that Dad won’t react well to Mrs. Avery telling him I miss my mom, but what the hell, it’s the truth. “Okay,” I say finally.

  Jess has no idea how lucky she is. I wish I could trade places with her for just one day. Her mother is fucking unreal.

  Jessie

  This week was a complete disaster, and it’s left me feeling like the slightest thing might break me.

  I skipped science on Monday after seeing Annie and Scott kiss. I just couldn’t face sitting next to him, knowing there was no hope. I’d skip the whole rest of the semester if I could, but my geeky heart hurt from missing class, and I was paranoid that the school would call home. So I gathered my courage and walked into class on Tuesday with as much dignity as I could muster.

  I was prepared for Scott to be awkward with me. Or maybe even a little distant. I wasn’t prepared for him to act as if nothing had changed.

  “Jess!” He greeted me with a smile that made his eyes sparkle. “Thank God you’re back. There’s a test next Monday. Can we study later this week?”

  I will fully confess that I forgot all about Annie in that moment. One look in those deep brown eyes and I had to fight the impulse to crawl into his lap.

  “Sure!” I practically yelped, feeling the stirrings of possibility.

  “Great. I already asked Annie, and she can make it too,” he said, turning to face Mr. Donaldson as though he hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stomped on it.

  On Wednesday, he called me a “good friend” before asking me nine questions about Annie within the first twenty minutes of class. What’s her favorite movie? What kind of music does she listen to? Does she ever talk about me?

  On Thursday, Annie went home sick, and Scott put his arm around me and said he loved me before asking what kind of flowers he should send her. Okay, so his exact words were something along the lines of You’re the best, Jess! I love how smart you are, but I got fixated on the love word for so long that I didn’t hear a word Mr. Donaldson said all period.

  And then Friday. Friday we ate lunch together, like the messed-up little love triangle we are, and then hit the library to study. Or, rather, I hit the library to study, while Scott and Annie snuck flirty little looks at each other and found about a million reasons to touch. I wanted to stab myself in the eye with my pencil.

  I blame the tension from having to deal with them all week for what happened tonight.

  Annie and I were playing Would You Rather while we settled in to sleep in my room.

  “Would you rather kiss Mr. Donaldson or Miss Donaghue?” Annie asked, laughing.

  “Easy. Donaghue.” I dodged the pillow she threw at me.

  My turn. “Would you rather wear the exact same clothes to school all week or make out with Andrew Larson?” Andrew Larson has a hideous case of what Annie calls summer teeth—summ’er here, summ’er there.

  “Ugh!” Annie groaned. “Good one. Would I have to wear the same underwear too?”

  “Yep.”

  “How long would we have to make out?”

  “Twenty minutes. With tongue.”

  “Same clothes all week. No question.”

  “Gross!” I teased. She laughed softly and then yawned. I felt so deliciously happy. It was a perfect moment in time plucked out of a hectic and unsettling week. I should have just luxuriated in that moment and fallen asleep content. But I am me, and it seems that I am incapable of just enjoying life.

  “One more,” I said, my brain screaming at me to shut up. “Would you rather be best friends with me or with Courtney?”

  I don’t know where that came from. I’d intended to say Scott’s name, but Courtney came out instead.

  “Jess,” Annie groaned. “Don’t get all weird about Courtney again.”

  “Again? When have I been weird about Courtney?”

  “Oh. Hmmm . . . let me see . . . how about every day?”

  She rolled over so she was facing away from me, and I lay back on my pillow, stewing. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. I took a few deep breaths and tried the relaxation exercises my therapist showed me years ago. All to no avail. I could feel the sweat beading around my hairline. I dug my fingernails into my palms and tried to hold back the compulsion to continue the conversation. All the words I knew I shouldn’t say were tearing through my brain, howling for escape. It was useless trying to fight it. I knew I’d be up all night if we didn’t talk right then.

  “Annie? . . . Annie?”

  “Mmmhmmm . . .” Her voice was drowsy.

  “Why’d you choose me?”

  “For wha—” She was on the verge of sleep, and part of me knew I should leave her alone. But a bigger part needed to know the answer to that question.

  “To be friends with . . . on the first day of school . . .” I cringed when I heard the words come out of my mouth, and I half hoped that she was too asleep to have heard me.

  Annie sat up on the bed and crossed her legs, pushing her hair off her face. “What do you mean, I chose you? You’re the one who talked to me first.”

  She was wrong, though. I remember that day clearly. “No,” I told her. “You talked to me first. You asked if I was in your English class.”

  “You’re crazy, Jess. I thought you looked really nice and that you’d make a good friend, but it was you who asked about English class.”

  I started to get frustrated. Annie should know me better than that. Admittedly, I’ve never told her about my anxiety, but she’s supposed to be my best friend. She should understand me. She should know that there’s no way I’d ever be able to initiate that kind of conversation.

  “Whatever. Why me?”

  “Why you—what? Why did I think you looked nice?”

  “I guess so . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve talked about this before. I liked how genuine you were.”

  “But you could have been friends with anyone. With someone more popular. Why are you hanging out with me?”

  “I thought we were friends . . .”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Annie flicked on the light and looked at me like I was crazy. “What the fuck, Jess. Do you want to be my friend or not?”

  I shrank back from her anger. Why was she getting so upset? I was paying her a compliment and telling her how popular she could be. “Of course I want to be your friend. You’re my very best friend ever.”

  “Then why are you pushing me away?”

  “I’m n-not!” I dug my nails into my palms, but I couldn’t stop the sob from rising up. I felt like such a baby and wished I’d just kept my mouth shut.

  Annie looked shocked. “Are you crying? What’s the matter with you?”

  I don’t know. “I just . . .”

  She sighed like a reluctant child being forced to make nice. “Jessie. You’re my best friend. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter why. Why do you have to overthink everything?”

  “You’re right.” I nodded my head and fought to keep my voice casual. “I’m just tired, I think. You’re my best friend too.”

  She smiled at me and reached over to turn out the light. “Go to sleep, you big loser.” Her tone was teasing, but the words stung.

  The thing is, I know I’m a loser. That’s kind of the whole point. I’ve let Annie into my world little by little since the first day of school, and I’ve gotten comfortable showing her the real me. The me I normally keep hidden. I have this horrible feeling that she’s going to get tired of me soon.
Tired of all the stuff that happens in my head and the limited confines of my room.

  I know I’m spiraling right now. I know my therapist would tell me that I’m disaster planning and perseverating. But I can’t stop. Annie was my insurance policy against the loneliness and the worrying. She made me feel normal. What’ll I do if I lose her now?

  Annie

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Jessie asks for the millionth time.

  I lie back on my pillow, pressing my cell phone against my ear and silently screaming at her to just leave it alone.

  “I’m fine, Jess. Really. I appreciate the call, but I just want to be alone tonight.”

  “Okay. If you change your mind, I’m home. You can always come over.”

  “You’re a good friend,” I tell her before ending the call.

  And she is. A good friend, that is. The only one of my friends who remembered about today.

  It’s the sixth anniversary of my mom’s accident.

  I check my messages again and sigh. Not one of my old friends from the Nonconformists remembered. No texts, Facebook messages, emails, or missed calls. That cuts me so deep I can barely breathe. Some of those girls knew my mom. I can’t believe they forgot.

  I fucking hate Halloween.

  Tonight Madge and Sophie are dressed in lame costumes, getting ready to hand out candy together. My dad is hiding in his office, pretending to work. And I’m here in my room, huddled under the covers.

  I can hear the shouts and laughter of kids all up and down the street, and it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. Even though I know it’s irrational, it offends me that people can celebrate on the night my mom died.

  My phone rings again and I check the screen. Scott. I swallow hard and shove the phone under my pillow. He and Larissa have been calling all night, trying to convince me to go over to Jon’s with them. He’s having a “party.” A party only six people are invited to. Which basically means his parents are out of town and he’s inviting people to come drink and hook up in his basement.